Monday, 14 December 2009

And another thing...

I went to the distant and inconvenient sorting office today to park illegally and collect the parcel that the postman wouldn't consider leaving with a neighbour (another cat radiator cradle, if you're wondering - they don't like sharing any more, and having one next to the dining table allows Scooter to watch my every mouthful). The clerk said with surprise that another parcel for me had been waiting for a couple of days longer - no yah-boo card had been left at my house, so perhaps it was fortunate that I had to go down there or I may never have found out about the first package, and in time it would have been returned to sender.

Although as it was actually part of my birthday present from my sister, I suppose I'd have got it back eventually. And as she is a champion complaints-letter writer, she would have sprung vigorously into action and got someone's head on a plate and an apology with it.

The Royal Mail, formerly the Post Office, with its glorious history, is dying on its feet.... I don't mean to sound quite so pompous, but if you live in the UK you'll know what I mean. Time was, delivering post was a sacred duty, regardless; postcards marked "to the nice ginger-haired family whose name we can't remember but who live in a little white cottage in North Wales with a small bridge over the stream next to a blue shed..." had a good chance of reaching their destination. And postmen rang next door's bell if you were out, and asked the neighbours to take your parcel in.

I'm going to watch BBC's Panorama tonight, wearing a lemon-sucking face, and heckle the telly. And then I shall get a grip before I turn into one of those bitter and twisted chronically-complaining women that people dread meeting in the street. "Quick, hide! Here's that mad woman in the granny nightie and the hoodie dressing gown - she's frothing at the mouth and going on about the postman again!"

Tomorrow I shall be all sweetness and light again, and drone on about my barely-visible new cat. I know you're wondering how he's getting on, or if Scooter and Millie have eaten him.

7 comments:

Isabelle said...

Yes, well at least you retired people are free (ish) during the 2-hour slot they allow one to go and collect the parcel.

I don't have a dressing gown - I get dressed immediately I get up - but I quite fancy the idea of a hood for cold nights. Or pretending to be Christopher Robin.

I'm quite confident that S and M aren't cannibals. Or at least I hope not.

Fran Hill said...

I love your description of what people used to write on envelopes and still get them delivered. Ah, the nostalgia. If you don't write the postcode now, I bet they dump them in a bin.

SmitoniusAndSonata said...

The postal service leaves something to be desired , I admit , but try having something vital delivered by courier .
"It's been delivered" is a favourite , closely followed by "You weren't in" or "Your house doesn't exist".....with "You don't exist" the likely fourth option .
By this stage you rather wish you didn't .

BumbleVee said...

oh, boy... tomorrow's will be totally dull then if you go all sickly sweet... ick....

and don't touch the cat with those sticky fingers...

PG said...

Thankfully in our village the posties still leave parcels on my doorstep if I'm out (if my bike is parked they know I'm not very far away)or leave with neighbours - or even stop me in the middle of one of my bike rides, miles from home, to say that they've got a delivery for me! But we are a small community and so are lucky enough to keep some of the old fashioned ways - which is why we choose to live here, despite the difficulties sometimes.

Linda said...

Am now waiting for the post headed "Bah! Humbug!".
Get chirpy soon - Christmas is coming, Season of Goodwill to ALL Men (even posties, but possibly not Tony Blair).

mountainear said...

Our 'post people' are excellent and it's only rarely that we have to go and collect stuff from the depot, thank goodness. Like PG we live in a rural area and we'll get stopped when we're to be given our mail - or our neighbours. Very occasionaly our postie will bring things from the other end of the village for a favour. Shhh. I'm sure that's not allowed.

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